Hands of a Healer
by Indigo2
Summary: Legolas is wounded and asks for Aragorn's help. No SLASH.


WARNINGS: AU, character death, angst. Minor spoilers for TTT and ROTK, but it's AU anyway.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the character used in this story. I have no money and all you will get is an extensive action figure collection and a guitar if you sue me.  
  
A/N: Elvish denoted in '', common speech denoted in "".  
  
HANDS OF A HEALER  
  
My heart is in my throat as I shove my way to the tent. There are many of them, serving as temporary shelters for none of us want to retreat back into the catacombs of Helm's Deep, where we had been cornered like rats the night before. We lost many men, though the bodies of orcs lay strewn by the thousands across the cold ground. There is too much death here, and we will be moving on soon to return to King Theoden's halls and plan our next move. But that is not what is on my mind right now.  
  
It is too quiet when I pull aside the tent flap and step inside. There are few people here. I see a healer first, and he looks at me with wide eyes like a startled deer. I swallow roughly as my eyes find the lone bed with its broken figure upon it. Gimli cries out when he sees me and rises from his spot next to the bed.  
  
"Aragorn is here!" he says to the elf on the bed. "He will set you right."  
  
My throat constricts at those words, for my faith is not so great. Still, I approach the bed to see Legolas at last. I nearly cry out myself at the sight. He is deathly pale, though his eyes burn bright with fever and pain deeper than any depths of water I've ever seen. His lips part in a silent cry when he sees me and he reaches out one pale, slender hand to grasp my arm. I let him draw me close, but I gently extricate my arm from his grip and lay his hand back at his side. He cannot be still and writhes at even the slightest touch to the blankets that cover him up to his chest.  
  
"Legolas," I say, more for the cadence of the word than a greeting.  
  
'Aragorn,' he says, his voice rough and slurred. 'Ask Gimli to leave for I have need to speak with you alone,' he continues, lapsing back into his native language.  
  
I nod and he closes his eyes against some tremor inside him while I speak. "Gimli, I must ask you to leave us, if only for a few moments."  
  
The stout dwarf looks lost for a moment, and I am afraid he will refuse. But then he nods and looks down at his friend. "I will be just outside," he says and touches a bare shoulder in comfort.  
  
"Thank you," Legolas says, returning the touch.  
  
Gimli leaves us then, shepherding the healer out with him. Legolas is panting slightly now, lips turning from pink like the inside of a shell to a startling bluish-white. I do not speak as I move the blanket down to settle at his hips. I bite my lip from crying at what I see. There, across the pale belly, is a vicious slash. It had cut through skin and muscle to lay bare organs underneath. The gauze and cloth the wound is packed with is soaked through with blood, and I cannot remove them without causing him even more pain. It is no use, I know, for it is a mortal wound, beyond even my healing. Still, I will not admit defeat.  
  
'Let me send someone to fetch athelas and water,' I say, starting to rise.  
  
He catches my arm again. 'No,' he says. 'It is of no use.' He opened his mouth to continue, but only a weak cry comes forth as his fair face crumples in agony.  
  
Tears run down my face as I tuck the blanket around him once more. 'At least let me give you something, for the pain,' I plead. The wound will kill him, but it will not be a swift or merciful death.  
  
He shakes his head again. 'I would not live the last moments of my life drugged into a stupor,' he says.  
  
I understand. The pride of elves runs deep, and I know this better than most from being raised amongst them. I remember the last time I saw Legolas, poised on a staircase with a single arrow to guard my escape into the caves. I hauled him in after me and we collapsed together inside the cave with his musical laughter ringing out amongst the stone. Then we rode out with King Theoden at dawn and the tide of battle forced us apart. Farther apart than I knew.  
  
Legolas brushes off my tears, bringing me back to the present. 'They say the hands of a King are the hands of healer,' he whispers. 'This is beyond even you, dear Aragorn, but I would ask of you a different kind of healing.'  
  
'Anything,' I say, and I mean it.  
  
'I would go to the Halls of Mandos by your hand,' he says. His voice is strangely clear and his conviction is strong. 'Kill me Aragorn, for you will be far more merciful than this wound.'  
  
I say nothing in my shock, and he mistakes it for refusal. 'You will not do it, and I will not ask Gimli for he has no understanding of the ways of Elves.' His voice sounds broken and so very tired.  
  
I grasp his hand again. 'I will do it, because you ask this of me and my love for you is too strong to see you in such pain.' I cannot stop the tears that escape from my eyes.  
  
'Do not cry,' he says. 'I am not afraid. I do wish I could have lived long enough to call you Elessar.'  
  
'Call me it now, if it so pleases you, though it is not yet true.'  
  
He smiles and his teeth show red. 'Elessar,' he says, his voice true and strong for the moment. 'The Elf-stone, King of Men, foster son of Lord Elrond Peredhil, Ranger of the North and husband of Arwen Evenstar.'  
  
I laugh, though it is a forced, chocked sound. 'Yes, and member of the Fellowship of the Ring,' I add for it is a title we share. He appreciates it and his smile reaches his eyes for a second.  
  
The pain overtakes him again, and he is forced to close his eyes against it. 'Would you send Gimli in, for I would speak to him for a moment,' he asks. He is shivering now, against the coldness of his blood.  
  
I nod and rise to fetch another blanket. I tuck it around him securely, and that seems to warm him enough, so I leave to find the dwarf. True to his word, he is standing just outside the tent, leaning on his axe. His quick eyes take in my appearance, and he knows that it is of no use. Still, his stout face does not betray his emotions.  
  
"Legolas asks for you," I say simply.  
  
I did not know that dwarfs could move so quickly as he disappears into the tent. I leave them be and go to fetch what I would need. I need something quick and painless, and my healer's mind is searching through herblore and weaponry alike in its quest. At last I settle on poison, one that would numb as it kills so that one feels only sleepiness and peace as the heart stops. It is a sick joke that I feel fortunate when I realize that such a poison is in my possession. An elvish poison, it is usually used to tip arrows, but would also be fatal if ingested. It is in my saddlebags.  
  
I cross the camp and it is the first time all day that no one has stopped me to speak or ask advice. Instead, eyes fall away when they reach mine. I know why. A light is dimming and is about to go out, leaving darkness in my wake. I do not stall or waste time in rummaging through the leather bag my horse carries. I see Arod, tethered mere feet away. His intelligent eyes question me, but I have no heart to tell him that the beautiful elf he carried into battle would not be riding out today. Arod will find a new master, or run free and remember.  
  
My hand closes around the bottle, and I turn back to the tent. I wait outside until Gimli exits. He looks up at me from under his helm, but his eyes only holds understanding, and not a few tears. "You are braver than I, and that is no small admittance for a dwarf," he says. He does not wait for a reply, but stalks off.  
  
I duck inside the tent again. Legolas watches me enter, and his eyes show approval as he spies the bottle in my hand. 'I named Gimli Elf-friend,' he tells me, laughter floating in his eyes above the abysmal depths. 'He thought it a jest, the stubborn dwarf.'  
  
I smile and kneel beside the bed again. 'I am ready,' he says. It is odd how such simple words can lay my fears to rest.  
  
I lift him into a sitting position and slide my body behind him so he could lay against my chest with only a little pain. I hold the bottle to his lips and he drinks until I stop him and take the bottle away. Already his eyes grow dim as the agony flees from his body to be replaced by a stillness he doesn't understand.  
  
'Thank you, Elessar,' he whispers.  
  
I hold him as his eyes slide close and his ragged breathing evens out and slows. His face is peaceful and beautiful once more as his breath stops, and I can feel each tremor of his heart under my hand until it, too, halts. I slide out from beneath his body, and he looks as when I first saw him. Elven Prince, warrior, poet and best friend.  
  
Do not cry, I tell myself. It is only death and you will see it again soon enough. Do not fear for the dead.  
  
I exit the tent to find King Theoden, for I am Elessar, and I will see the end of this war. 


End file.
